


Out In The Open

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Hot For Teacher [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And all of a sudden there's plot, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bisexual Tony Stark, Bottom Peter Parker, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Fist Fights, Language, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Peter Parker, Peter Parker has a dirty mouth, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Porn, Porn With Plot, Protective Tony Stark, Secret Relationship, Supportive May Parker (Spider-Man), Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony gets railroaded a little, Tony never stood a chance, Trash Ship, Voyeurism, authority kink, is that a thing? i'm making it a thing, professor/student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-19 18:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: “May, there’s something I gotta tell you,” Peter says after he has sat down again, Quentin sliding into the booth next to him, and May’s expression turns suspicious.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a fucking roll here, guys. But I'm not obsessed or anything, I can stop at any time.

_1.5 years later…_

Peter feels mildly sick, nerves making him jumpy as he listens to May’s little speech.

“Thank you for joining Peter and me,” she says, smiling so brightly it makes Peter’s cheeks hurt. “It feels like only yesterday that we dropped these two off at kindergarten, and look at them now!”

MJ looks at him over the rim of her glass, eyes widening a little, and Peter rubs the back of his neck with an awkward shrug. Mister and Mrs Jones are smiling just as widely as May, and while he’s grateful for this post-graduation dinner, he’s worried, too.

So fucking worried.

Because now that he’s no longer a student, he talked Quentin into making things official. Visible. Which means Peter is going to introduce Quentin to May once the Joneses have gone home, and Peter’s stomach flips again.

“You okay, Pete,” Mrs Jones asks, and he smiles weakly.

“Yeah, just… Too much excitement for one day.”

MJ cocks an eyebrow at him, mouths, “Smooth,” before she shovels more fettucine into her mouth. The rest of the dinner goes as well as one could expect from three parents/parental substitutes who are over the moon with their offspring’s intellectual achievements, but finally the Joneses are saying their goodbyes to May.

Peter lets himself get drawn into a hug from MJ, who whispers into his ear, “Is he coming?”

He nods, squeezes her a little. “When you guys have gone.”

She steps back, gives him a long look, shrugs. “I’ll make sure to scatter your ashes in a nice place,” she says, and he snorts a nervous laugh.

And then it’s just him and May, nursing cappuccinos, and there’s a knot in his stomach, a restless energy in him that makes him fidget in his seat, as he turns to look back towards the door what feels like every few seconds.

After about four minutes of this, May cocks an eyebrow at him. “Are you, by any chance, waiting for someone?”

“Uh, I...” The little bell by the door _ding_ s then, and when Peter looks back, there’s Quentin, and he feels at once relieved and like he’s going to pass out from anxiety. “Actually, yes.” He slides out of the booth, feeling May’s eyes on him, and gives Quentin a little wave.

Quentin’s lips tilt up into a smile, and he makes his way over to them with long strides. “Hey, Pete,” he says, before he turns to May. “Mrs Parker, a pleasure to see you again,” he says before he smoothly produces a small bouquet of flowers and hands it to May.

May, who looks completely and utterly confused. “Uh, yes, you too, Mister...”

“Beck, Quentin Beck.” He gives Peter a sideways look. “Peter was in my computer engineering class.”

“Oh, right, yes! Sorry, I have problems with names,” she says, still obviously confused by the flowers and his presence in general.

“May, there’s something I gotta tell you,” Peter says after he has sat down again, Quentin sliding into the booth next to him, and May’s expression turns suspicious.

“Don’t tell me you’re on drugs,” she says, and Peter splutters.

“No, I’m not on drugs, what the hell even?” Quentin takes his hand beneath the table, squeezes it as he chuckles, and Peter draws a deep breath. “I, that is to say, we… Uh, I… Mister Beck is...” May’s suspicious look only intensifies, and finally Peter blurts, “He’s my boyfriend.”

There is a long moment of silence, and Peter feels like he just dropped a bomb and now everyone is waiting for the impact. Finally, May turns her gaze on Quentin, and Peter bites his lip.

“So you’re the mysterious man who’s been having sex with my nephew,” she says, and Peter squeaks.

“May!”

After that, it’s all astoundingly simple. May is obviously not… _thrilled_ with the age gap, and she clearly doesn’t believe that this is a new, post-school thing. She also knows that there was definitely no favouritism because honestly, Peter doesn’t need it. Her questions are precise and relentless, and Quentin answers them all evenly, and Peter feels the knot in the pit of his stomach dissipate slowly.

He lets his eyes drift across the restaurant as he listens to May interrogate Quentin. It’s so fucking awkward, and he still wants to sink into the ground, but he supposes this is something he’ll have to power through. Quentin squeezes his hand under the table, encouraging, and he feels a little lighter.

Until he looks in the direction of the entrance, that is, and sees Tony Stark walking in their direction, and he’s looking Very Not Amused.

“Q,” Peter hears himself squeak, and then Tony stops by their table, smiling in that odd way that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“May, Peter, fancy seeing you here.” His eyes settle on Quentin with laser focus, on the very little space between him and Peter, the clasped hands on the bench, and his voice goes flat. “And Quentin.”

Quentin, to his credit, stays calm, and Peter makes himself a little smaller, tries to hide behind the man. “Tony.”

May looks confused for a second, before she says, “Oh.” Her eyes zigzag between the three men before her, and then she laughs a little. “Well, I feel better now that I realise I wasn’t the only one left in the dark about this,” and Peter feels a fresh rush of guilt.

“May, I didn’t...”

“It’s fine, Peter,” she says, even though her smile is weak. “You’re an adult, a very smart, responsible adult,” and here she sends an accusatory look Tony’s way, making it clear that she doesn’t think he’s either of those things, “and you can make your own choices without your fussy old aunt intervening.” She gathers her things while Tony glares daggers at Quentin, and then she leans over and presses a dry kiss to Peter’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little wobbly. “Definitely.”

She gets to her feet, and turns her attention on Tony. Peter watches the man’s throat bob as he swallows under her scrutiny. “Do us all a favour and don’t make a scene, Tony. This is my favourite restaurant, I’d hate getting banned just because you threw a fit.” And with a last, slightly awkward smile in Quentin’s direction, she’s gone, the flower heads in the bouquet bobbing with each of her steps, and the tension ratchets up immediately.

“Can we please leave,” Peter murmurs, and Quentin looks up at Tony calmly.

“I don’t know,” he says, fixes the other man with a hard look. “Can we?”

“ _You_ can skedaddle,” Tony says to Quentin, before he points at Peter. “You, not so much.”

Peter is very impressed by how calm Quentin manages to stay despite Stark being so set on a confrontation. “Peter is going to leave with me, Tony. You don’t get to decide.” And he slides out of the booth, tugs Peter along with him, and heads for the counter to pay. Tony stays standing there for a second, seething, before he walks past them quickly, and Peter watches him drop a wad of bills on a table, a table where a pretty young woman with strawberry blond hair sits, looking less than happy. And when they’re making their way over to Quentin’s car, the restaurant door bangs open behind them and Tony comes stalking out with murder in his eyes.

“Peter, stop. You’re not getting in the car with that creep.”

“Or what,” Quentin asks, finally losing his cool a little as he whips around, pushing Peter behind him. “You gonna fight me on his behalf?”

“If I have to,” Stark says, and Peter believes him.

“Come on, Q, let’s just go, please.” He moves away, makes to walk around the car, when he feels a hand close around his wrist, and then he’s being tugged back sharply.

“Peter, _no_.” Tony’s grip on him is like iron as he pulls him away from Quentin. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Please let go, Mister Stark, it’s really not what you think, it’s...”

“Stark, think about what you’re doing,” Quentin says, and it only enrages the man further.

“What _I’m_ doing? I’m not the one grooming a fucking _student_ ,” he yells, and Peter finally manages to pull his hand away from his grip.

“Former student,” he murmurs, and Stark shoots him a look that that says, “Don’t even start”.

“I always knew you were trouble,” Stark grinds out, pointing an angry finger at Quentin’s face, and Peter feels like he’s going to cry. “You couldn’t keep your hands to your fucking self, Beck? Gotta snatch the kid up the second he’s done with school?”

“Mister Stark, please,” Peter hears himself say, but the man ignores him.

“I still don’t see how any of this is your business,” Quentin replies, refusing to let himself be riled up further by Stark, and the man’s face nearly turns crimson with rage.

“I’ve known Peter since he was 15! If you think I’ll allow you to get your paws on him-”

“Tony,” Peter shouts, and that seems to get through, because he has never called Tony by his first name, and he turns and looks at Peter, still angry.

“What?!”

“Don’t you care what I have to say?” His voice sounds small to his own ears, and Tony seems to deflate a little.

“Peter, I’m sorry, but don’t you see what he’s doing? Ingratiating himself with May? Fucking _flowers_? He’s just looking to score, and then he’s gonna dump you!”

And Peter feels his jaw set, his hand curl into fists, and he knows he’s probably about to make a truly colossal mistake, but he can’t stop himself. “We’ve been dating for almost two years.”

Tony stills, and his face goes completely blank for a long moment, and then he turns and lurches forward, launches himself at Quentin. His fist catches the other man on the chin, and Quentin stumbles backwards, hits the side of his car with a grunt. Peter screams, launches himself between the two, barely able to hold Tony back.

“Stop, Tony, please, _please_ stop!” Peter’s voice sounds wet, choked, and he realises he’s started crying as he pushes against Tony’s chest with all his might, and finally the man relents, breathing hard. Quentin is leaning against the car, rubbing his chin. He’s smiling darkly, and Peter wishes he’d just leave it be, but of fucking course.

“Feeling better, Stark? Got that out of your system, finally?”

“You-” Tony starts forward again, and Peter does the only thing he can think of, he winds his arms around the man’s chest and holds him as tight as he can.

“Tony, don’t!”

And finally, Stark stops, looks down at the boy wrapped around him, and his rage is replaced by visible confusion. “You’re really serious about this, Peter? You can’t be fucking _serious_.” Peter nods and looks up at Tony, and then his face softens ever so slightly as he reaches up and wipes a tear off Peter’s cheek. “I’m sorry, kid, I was just...” He sends a dark look in Quentin’s direction. “Beck has a… reputation.”

“I know,” Peter says, and he finally lets go and takes a step back, and the look on Tony’s face is priceless, in a really awful sort of way.

“You _know_? And you don’t… you don’t _care_?” The man looks utterly scandalised, which is ironic given the things Peter knows about Tony’s private life.

“Like Mrs Parker said,” Quentin says quietly, “he’s an adult. A very smart adult,” and Peter feels a burst of warmth at the smile Quentin gives him before he looks back at Tony. “Why don’t you start treating him like one?”

Tony is still breathing hard, his hands still curled into fists by his sides. “Peter,” he says, and something inside Peter’s chest twinges at that, at the defeat in the man’s voice.

“Can’t you just trust me,” he asks, and Tony laughs, a laugh entirely devoid of humour.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he says darkly, and Quentin smirks.

“I don’t know if I should feel honoured or offended.”

“Definitely offended,” Tony deadpans, and Peter is getting so fucking frustrated.

“Could you two stop for, like, a second? Why do I feel like I need to be the responsible one here?”

Stark sighs at that, rubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Peter, really, I don’t want to put you in this position, but...” He falls silent, and Peter takes a deep breath.

“Jealousy is not a good look on you, Stark,” Quentin says into the quiet, so calmly, and Tony goes absolutely rigid.

Peter’s mind takes a moment to catch on, and he hears himself say, “Wait, what?” His eyes flit back and forth between Quentin and Tony, between his boyfriend’s rather self-satisfied smile and his teacher’s thunderous expression, and then he says, “ _Oh_.”

“Peter,” Tony starts but Peter cuts him off.

“Is it true,” he asks, and damn, his voice sounds way too hopeful, and he feels Quentin stiffen slightly beside him. They’ve talked about this, they have both slept with other people in the last year and a half, and they have talked about Tony _specifically_ , but it was always entirely theoretical. _One hundred percent outside the realm of possibility_ , Peter thinks, as he remembers that one time Tony had almost caught them fucking on Quentin’s desk, and he feels a tell-tale heat in the pit of his stomach. “Are you… interested in me like that?”

Tony doesn’t look at him. “I should go.”

Peter throws a look over his shoulder, at Quentin, the man’s eyes stormy but his face perfectly smooth, and when he nods, Peter starts forward, after Tony, and now he grabs the other man by the wrist. “Wait, please, I….”

“What do you want me to say, Peter?” Tony looks vaguely like he’s in pain as he tries to gently pull his arm from Peter’s grip. “You don’t want this,” he says, gesturing between himself and Peter, waves a dismissive hand in Quentin’s direction.

_Screw this_ , Peter thinks, and he tightens his fingers around Tony’s arm before he surges forward, fists his free hand into the front of Tony’s jacket and presses his lips to the other man’s.

Tony is holding his breath, like he’s waiting for Peter to realise his error and let go, or like he’s trying to decide if this is really happening, and Peter opens his mouth and sucks on Tony’s bottom lip. Tony makes a sound deep in his throat, an odd, tortured sound, and then his hands are framing Peter’s face and he opens his mouth and _oh fuck_.

Peter’s mind is turning to mush. Tony is licking into his mouth, his thumbs stroking Peter’s cheekbones, and Peter hums in pleasure. Finally, after what feels like forever, Peter pulls back, gasps for breath a little. Tony stares at him, still so close, his eyes wide and disbelieving, and Peter smiles a little. “Hi,” he breathes, and Tony’s lip twitches.

“Hey,” he replies, voice sounding awestruck, and Peter’s heart skips.

There’s heat at his back, a hand on his hip, and he feels uncomfortably warm all of a sudden, like he really needs to take off at least one piece of clothing. Preferably more.

“Should we take this discussion somewhere else,” Quentin asks in a low voice, and Tony flinches as though struck, lets go of Peter.

“I...” He tries to step back, his eyes wild all of a sudden, but Peter is still holding onto his jacket and he doesn’t let go.

“Please, Mister Stark,” he says, and why is it “Mister Stark” again, and does his voice always sound this breathy?

Quentin moves his hand, up Peter’s hip, his back, until it rests on the nape of Peter’s neck. “Peter and I have an understanding, you see,” he says as Peter shivers. “We can fuck whoever we want, as long as the other knows about it. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while it does.” He fixes Tony with a look, and Peter can see the smirk on his face from the corner of his eyes. “And quite frankly, he has been fantasizing about you basically non-stop for months,” he says silkily, and Tony’s eyes grow even wider before he turns them back to Peter, who tries to look innocent, which is really fucking hard with kiss bruised lips and pupils blown wide and Quentin’s hand holding him firmly in place.

“You’ve ruined him,” Tony breathes, eyes flickering up to Quentin’s calm gaze for a second before they latch onto Peter again, and Quentin chuckles.

“If that thought helps you sleep at night,” he says before he leans down, until his lips brush against the shell of Peter’s ear. “Go on, honey, ask _nicely_ ,” he murmurs as he lets go of his neck, and Peter closes his eyes at the rush of excitement.

He lets go of Tony’s jacket, and sinks to his knees at his feet, looks up at him. He knows he must make a right picture, with his spit-shining lips, his tousled hair, kneeling there in that parking lot with these two men, and he twitches in his pants. Licks his lips, slowly, tilts his head back. “Please come with us,” he says, before he twists the proverbial knife. “Sir,” he breathes, and Tony shudders.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I feel like Tony and Q are a little OOC with this whole set up but who gives a shit.

They take separate cars, Tony in his Audi and Peter riding with Quentin in his Prius, and Peter keeps watching Quentin for signs that he’s become Not Okay with this. Finally Quentin looks over at him at a stop light.

“Ask your question, Peter, before you crawl out of your skin.”

“Are you really okay with this,” he blurts. “It’s just, with meeting May and Tony finding out, it’s been a lot and I just want to be sure...”

“Peter,” Quentin says, calmly, places a hand on Peter’s knee. “I want to do what makes you happy,” and Peter melts into his seat a little at that.

They keep driving, and after a while he says, “Thank you, Q,” and leans across the middle column to rest his head on the man’s shoulder. Quentin reaches up and places his hand on Peter’s cheek, rubs his thumb over the soft spot behind his ear.

“Anything, darling, you know that,”

They agreed on a hotel, as if that will make this less of a personal thing, or rather Peter decided after the two men had just glared silently at each other. Tony is already in the parking lot, waiting for them as he leans against the trunk of his car. They walk inside without a word, until Quentin sends Peter off towards the elevator with Tony as he sorts out a room for them, and Peter is acutely aware of what this must look like to the concierge.

“God, I look like a fucking rent boy,” he murmurs, and Tony splutters next to him, chokes on a laugh.

“Does it help that you look like the expensive type,” he asks with a smile, and Peter feels his insides turn to jelly at that smile.

“A little,” he breathes, and Tony steps closer, until Peter can feel the heat of his body through his shirt. “Mister Stark,” he hears himself say, and Tony groans.

“Could you please stop calling me that?”

Peter tilts his face up, licks his lips. “I don’t think I can, sir,” he says, and then Tony is on him, crowding him into the corner and kissing him like he’s waited years to do it, and Peter thinks he probably has. One hand is on Peter’s throat and one on his hip as Tony pushes his thigh between Peter’s, and Peter whimpers into his mouth.

“I see you’ve started without me,” Quentin says, smoothly, as he appears beside them and pushes the elevator call button. There’s a twinkle in his eyes though that Peter recognises, and instead of trying to deflect, as he senses Tony is about to do as his fingers tense, he rolls his hips against Tony’s thigh with a breathy, “I hope you don’t mind,” and Tony’s grip becomes almost painful.

It feels abso-fucking-lutely fantastic.

Quentin gives Peter a look that makes the hair on his forearms stand on end, before he smiles softly. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

The elevator arrives then, and Quentin, with a little bow, motions for them to enter. Tony lets Peter go with a sigh before they file inside, and Peter leans against the back wall, watches the two men, in opposite corners. It’s like looking at a strange sort of optical illusion. He never consciously realised how similar the two men look, except for the eye colour and the amount of effort they put into grooming their facial hair, and Peter feels a flush rise in his cheeks. _Guess I have a type_ , he thinks wryly.

“So when you… fuck other people,” Tony says after a moment, his voice tight, “do you always do it together?”

“No,” Quentin says, nonchalant, and Peter knows he’s enjoying this just as much as him, and he shifts his stance a little before he says, “Never.”

“What makes me different,” Tony asks, bemused, and Quentin chuckles.

“Peter has had a crush on you for years, Stark.” He gives the other man a look. “Don’t tell me you never noticed.”

Tony stares at Peter, for a long moment, until the elevator stops, announcing the sixth floor, and as the doors slide open he says, quietly, “No. I didn’t.”

Peter can feel Tony’s gaze on the back of his neck as they walk to their room. It makes a heat rise in him, makes his stomach tight with anticipation. Quentin opens the door for him and lets Peter inside, and Peter isn’t surprised when he steps into Tony’s path before he can enter.

“Let’s make one thing very clear. You’re only here because Peter wants you to be here. If it were up to me, you’d still be in the restaurant with your little girlfriend.” Quentin’s voice is hard, his dislike of the other man bleeding through. “But Peter gets what he asks for, so. Don’t fuck this up for him.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Tony says, voice equally as hard, and Peter sighs.

“Are you two going to continue bickering like little old ladies at a church fundraiser, or is one of you going to come over here and fuck me?”

Tony chokes on air, and Peter snickers into his palm.

“He can be a bit of a brat, by the way,” Quentin quips as he walks over to the sofa by the window, taking off his jacket and folding it before he drops it on the desk along the way. Peter follows, waits for the man to sit down before he smirks at him and rests his hands on either side of Quentin’s shoulders. He can feel the other’s breath against his face, can see the amusement in his eyes.

“Are you going to start complaining about that now,” he asks, and Quentin reaches up and puts his hand back on Peter’s neck.

“Not at all, honey,” he replies before he kisses Peter, softly, slowly. When they part, he smirks. “Don’t neglect your guest.”

Peter mirrors the smirk and pushes himself off the couch. “Yes, sir,” and he turns to face Tony.

The man is still standing in the little hallway that passes by the bathroom, looking a little lost, and Peter walks over and undoes the button holding Tony’s suit jacket closed, holding his gaze as he pushes the garment off Tony’s shoulders. He tosses it on a chair before he takes Tony’s hand, and Tony’s fingers twitch against his.

“Peter, are you really sure you want this?” His eyes are wide, imploring, and Peter doesn’t know which answer is going to hurt the man more.

“Yes,” he says, simply, and a muscle ticks in Tony’s jaw. Peter walks backwards then, pulls Tony along with him, until his thighs hit the bed. “Kiss me, please,” he murmurs, before he sits, lies back, tugging Tony down with him, and Tony slides into place between Peter’s legs.

It turns out that, when not hurriedly groping someone in the corner of a hallway, Tony Stark really is a truly phenomenal kisser, something Peter has long suspected after he overheard May gushing to one of her friends one time about what an attentive lover the man had been. Peter half suspects that that little titbit had planted the first seeds of his crush, back at the ripe old age of fifteen-and-a-half, something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged for years.

Finding out Tony had accepted a teaching position at Peter’s college of choice had come as a tiny bit of a shock.

Now, Tony has wound one hand into Peter’s hair, holding him gently in place as he licks into his mouth, and Peter grins to himself before he bites Tony’s tongue, just hard enough for it to sting a little. Tony groans, his fingers tightening in Peter’s hair, and Peter slides his hands over Tony’s back, takes hold of his belt and pulls him down, hard. “Please, Mister Stark,” he whispers, rolls his hips, his own erection slotting into place next to Tony’s, and Tony drops his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, breathing harshly.

“God, Peter,” he bites out, “do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Peter rocks his hips against the other man with a gasp, and says, “I think I do, sir.” He does it again, and Tony _growls_ against his throat. Peter can _feel_ the sound reverberate in his diaphragm. “You’re wearing too many layers,” he purrs as he tugs Tony’s shirt free from his pants, slides his fingers over the sliver of skin exposed.

“So are you, kid,” Tony says before he pushes himself up, and when he looks down at Peter, hair dishevelled and pupils blown, Peter feels like dinner.

It feels _amazing_.

Tony undresses him slowly, as though he can’t quite believe he really gets to do it and wants to savour every second, and Peter keeps sneaking kisses as he unbuttons Tony’s shirt much quicker., wanting to get his hands on him.

He catches sight of Quentin, and the look in his eyes makes Peter’s stomach tighten. It’s… pride, almost? Possessiveness, definitely, but Peter feels no jealousy in that gaze, despite Quentin’s obvious dislike of Tony. It makes him feel very warm, in a stupid, romantic sort of way.

Finally Peter stands there in his underwear (and he’s very glad he picked his nicest briefs), and he’s so horny, he’s nearly vibrating. Tony slides gentle hands over his skin, exploring, before he kisses Peter again, softly, and Peter doesn’t want to wait a second longer. He sinks to his knees, looks up at Tony through his lashes, and says, “Can I suck your cock now, sir?”

The sound that comes out of Tony’s mouth is barely human, he thinks, and the man drops back onto the bed heavily, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ,” he says, as Peter reaches for his belt.

“You gotta tell him, Stark,” Quentin says, quietly, and Tony’s eyes snap up to stare at him. “Tell him what you want.” Quentin’s voice is dark, and it sends a shiver down Peter’s spine.

Tony looks back down at him, eyes still wide, and his throat bobs as he swallows, hard. “Yes, Peter,” he says, and his voice trembles slightly. “I’d like that.”

Peter smiles, brightly, happily, because damn it, he really, _really_ wants to, and Tony’s lip twitches up at the corner. He helps Peter with his belt, the fly of his slacks, and Peter gives a happy little sigh when, finally, he can pull them down, along with Tony’s underwear. His mind catalogues all the little differences between Q and Tony – size, girth, curvature – before he leans down and licks at Tony’s frenulum. Tony’s hand flies into his hair, and the man groans as he spreads his thighs a little wider, making more room for Peter.

He scoots forward, lets his tongue flick out again before he wraps one hand around the base of Tony’s cock. His reward is a low hiss, a barely there tightening of Tony’s grip on his hair, and he closes his mouth around the glans, sucks lightly.

Peter takes his time. He has all night, after all, and he wants to find all the little sweet spots that make Tony – _Mister Stark_ – moan, make his hips jerk, that make him wind his fingers tighter into Peter’s hair and pull so Peter has to take him deeper into his mouth.

“Take off your pants, honey,” he hears Quentin say after a while, quietly, and he obeys, shimmies out of the underwear and flings them to the side, never missing a beat as he continues licking along the vein on the underside of Tony’s cock.

“You wanna touch yourself, sweetheart,” Tony asks, and Peter moans around him at the endearment, but he shakes his head, lets Tony’s cock slip from his lips so he can look at Quentin over his shoulder. His boyfriend sits, legs spread to accommodate his obvious erection, and Peter whimpers.

“No, I...”

“Remember what we talked about in my office, Peter?” Quentin catches his eye, and Peter’s breath catches. Yes, yes, _of course_ he remembers. “Do you want to do it, darling,” Quentin asks, and Peter tingles, all over. He turns back to look up at the other man, and smiles, softly.

“Yes,” he says, and Quentin hums his approval.

“Wait, what are you talking about,” Tony asks, and Peter lets his smile widen, grow impish.

“Let me show you, sir,” he says, and then he takes Tony back into his mouth, relaxes his jaw, and _oh Jesus_. It’s just like Peter imagined it, back in Quentin’s office last year, how Tony would feel in his mouth, _in his throat_ , and now Tony’s fingers skitter across his jaw as the man chokes on something that sounds like Peter’s name, and he fidgets, rubs the palm of his hand over his cock, and it feels like every single sense he has has been dialled up to eleven.

Tony’s breaths come hard and sharp as Peter bobs up and down on his cock, as he pulls almost all the way off (mostly so he can breathe), and he makes a strangled groan every time Peter lets him fuck into his throat again.

Nothing exists any longer, except this.

It doesn’t take long until he senses that Tony is close, and because he can be a little shit sometimes, he redoubles his efforts. He really, _really_ wants Tony to come in his mouth.

Tony, however, has other ideas. “Peter, stop, _Jesus fuck_ , stop, I’ll-” He reaches down, grabs himself, squeezes the base of his cock to stave off his impending orgasm, and Peter chuckles to himself. Well, internally, anyway. He pulls back, hollows his cheeks for added impact (Tony squeezes himself harder at that) before he pulls off with a wet pop.

“But sir,” he says in his sweetest voice, all wide-eyed innocence, playing up his twinkness, something he somehow still manages to do even though he is, as MJ put it, built like a brick shithouse. “Didn’t you like that?” And he thinks he may be going too far when he bats his eyelashes at Tony, but instead of telling him off, Tony hauls him up by his arms and kisses him, hard, until Peter sees stars.

“If I liked it any more, I would’ve come all over your face just now,” he says when they part, and Peter’s eyes flutter closed. “How the hell did you teach him that,” Tony asks Quentin, and the other chuckles.

“Practice makes perfect.”

Peter smirks at the man over his shoulder, before he looks up at Tony again. “I’m very flexible in general,” he says, before he balances his weight on one knee, with his hand on Tony’s thigh, and then he reaches behind him and lifts his leg, catches it with his hand and pulls. He’s not as bendy as he used to be and his muscles aren’t warmed up, so he can’t put his whole foot on his shoulder, but he manages the toes at least. Tony’s eyes grow wide as saucers, and Peter grins. “I used to do gymnastics back in the day.”

“Right,” Tony says, distractedly, as his eyes follow the curve of Peter’s leg, roam over the taut muscles in his back. “May had some pictures in the living room.”

Peter lets go of his foot, brings his knee back down to the floor. Settles back on his haunches as he looks up at Tony. Quentin shifts on the sofa, says, “What do you want, Peter?”

He thinks about it for a long moment, as he meets Tony’s gaze steadily. A million things pop into a his mind, but it doesn’t take him long to fall back on the fantasy Quentin planted in his head that day in the office, and so he says, “I want you to watch for now,” and Tony swallows hard. “Would you like that,” Peter breathes, his heart in his throat when Tony doesn’t answer at first. No, he’s mulling it over, considering, and Peter fidgets. Maybe this was one thing too much right now?

Finally, Tony leans down a little, so had can cup Peter’s chin with one hand, can tilt his head up so he can press a soft kiss to his lips, one that is completely at odds with what comes out of his mouth next. “Only if I can fuck that pretty little ass after,” he says, and Peter groans against his lips.

“That can be arranged,” he hears Quentin say, and something delicious and hot runs through Peter, pleasure at the man’s willingness to accommodate Peter’s wishes. “Come here, honey,” next, and Peter pushes himself to his feet, unsteady all of a sudden. Tony catches his hand, holds it until Peter is not feeling so wobbly any more. Squeezes it, gently, before he lets go, and Peter turns and walks over to the sofa.

Quentin is still fully dressed, not even a button popped, and Peter wonders what he’s planning.


	3. Chapter 3

His boyfriend spreads his thighs a little wider, so Peter can stand between them more easily, and smirks up at him. “There’s something in the inside pocket of my jacket, go get it.” Peter does, walks over to the desk and unfolds the jacket, and his cheeks go pink when he reaches into the pocket. It’s a small tube of lube, and he pulls it out and holds it up, eyebrows raised. Quentin grins toothily. “What can I say, I was a boy scout.” He waves Peter over again, and when he’s back between Quentin’s thighs, he takes the tube. “Bend over, darling,” he murmurs, one hand on Peter’s hip where he holds him in place so Peter has to bend at the waist. He’s hotly, achingly aware of the view this affords Tony, and he feels a flush creep down his throat. Quentin grins again, a grin that Peter knows only too well. “Good. Now hold out your hand.”

He does, and Quentin snaps open the tube and squirts some of the cool gel onto Peter’s waiting fingers. Peter bites his lower lip, and his cock, neglected this whole time, bobs against his stomach, leaves a sticky smear of pre-come there. Quentin puts a hand on Peter’s throat, pulls him a little closer, and kisses him, coaxes Peter’s tongue into his own mouth. The lube warms, meanwhile, against Peter’s skin, and when Quentin pulls back, he smiles. It’s a devilish smile. _He could sell people the rope to hang themselves with_ , Peter thinks, _with a smile like that._

“You know what to do, honey,” Quentin says then, and Peter shivers.

He reaches behind himself, dimly aware of the way Tony sucks in a breath, and slides his fingers between his cheeks. He doesn’t usually do this himself (not any more, anyway), not because he doesn’t like to do it but because Quentin likes to do it too much to let him, and the angle is awkward with the way he has to balance his weight like this, but he manages reasonably well, he thinks. And besides – it’s not about effectively fucking himself right now, is it? 

Peter can do one finger easily, and even two of his own, slim fingers aren’t much of an issue. At three, his breath hitches, and when he lets his head fall forward, he can look along the length of his own body to watch Tony.

Tony stares, mesmerised, one palm absent-mindedly pressed against his own cock, and Peter feels a queer sense of power rush through him. That he could have these two men, who quite frankly could have anyone with their good looks and probably enough charisma between them to talk the pants off the pope himself, that they would ultimately bend to his will… Yeah, that’s a _good_ feeling.

He spreads his legs a little wider, scissors his fingers as much as he can at this angle, and lets Quentin pull him forward until he can rest his head on the man’s shoulder. Quentin’s breath whispers over his shoulder blade in this position, and shivers run down Peter’s back.

“He’s watching you so closely, darling,” Quentin murmurs, so low that only Peter can hear it. “He can’t believe his fucking luck, to be allowed to see you like this, all wet and open and _dripping_ ,” he says, as one hand closes around Peter’s cock, and Peter makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat when Quentin spreads the wetness gathering at the tip around with his thumb. “Wants to fuck you so bad it hurts, honey, to feel you come on his dick.”

Peter groans, clenches around his fingers. “God, Q,” he gasps, “please,” unsure what exactly he’s asking for.

“What is it, honey?” Quentin’s voice is so silky, his tone almost innocent, or at least it would be if he wasn’t stroking Peter’s cock at the same time. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Peter grinds out while he tries to keep himself from fucking into Quentin’s hand. “I can’t decide.” It sounds whiny, and he feels greedy because yes, he wants them both and saying yes to one right now means saying no to the other, and Peter just _can’t_.

“Want me to decide?” Quentin gentles his strokes until he stops altogether, just holds him, and Peter’s hips rock back and forth ever so slightly. He makes himself nod before he turns his head so he can press a sloppy kiss to Quentin’s throat. Quentin chuckles, low and dark, and Peter is coiled like a spring with anticipation. “I think I want to watch you ride him,” and oh, Peter’s breath stutters at that. “Would you like that, Peter,” Quentin asks, and he feels himself nod.

God, would he _like_ it.

Quentin gives him a last twist of his wrist and then pushes him back a little, gently, so he can look at Peter. His eyes are dark as pitch, and Peter licks his lips. “Go have fun, darling,” Quentin tells him and kisses him, softly, once, before he pushes him in Tony’s direction.

Tony is still exactly where Peter left him, shirt and pants undone, and his eyes trace the movement as Peter finally pulls his fingers out of himself. He crosses the distance, slowly, lets Tony look his fill, his skin heating up as the man’s eyes roam over him. “Like what you see,” he hears himself ask, incapable of keeping the bratty tone out of his voice, and Tony’s lips tilt up in a smile.

“Certainly do,” he says, as he wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a long, slow stroke. Peter’s eyes are glued to the motion, and his mouth goes a little dry. “What about you,” Tony drawls, apparently having gotten over his what-the-fuck-is-happening attitude, and Peter swallows, hard, before he nods. He walks closer, hums in pleasure as Tony puts a hand on his hip once he’s close enough, his hand warm as it moves, slowly, backwards, over the curve of Peter’s ass, and Peter shifts, plants his feet a little further apart to give him room, and Tony smirks. “Impatient?”

Peter shrugs one shoulder, plays at looking unaffected. “Maybe.” He looks at Tony from the corner of his eye, watches how his smile broadens, and then his fingers dip between Peter’s cheeks, and he breathes out a soft sigh. “Okay, definitely.” 

The first touch sends a shiver racing up his spine.

It’s gentle, oh so gentle, and Peter rocks his hips back a little, tries to make that fingertip go where he wants it, which is as far into him as it can go. Instead, Tony pulls him a little closer so he can reach better, so he can brush not one but two fingertips over Peter’s entrance, just a slow, teasing touch.

Peter wants to throttle him with his tie. A little, at least.

He whines, can’t keep it in, says, “Please, Mister Stark,” and his lips quirk into a quick grin at the way Tony’s finger twitch against him at that.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me.”

And Peter realises that he does indeed have a type. The type that likes to make him spell everything out or won’t give him anything, apparently. And so he says, “I want your cock, sir,” makes himself tack on a, “Please,” as he lets his fingers flutter over Tony’s collarbone.

Tony, unfortunately, takes away his hand at that and pushes Peter back a step, so he can get to his feet. His other hand comes up to cup Peter’s jaw, and Peter moves forward, into the touch, tries to get closer so he can kiss Tony, but Tony holds him in place. “Such a polite boy,” he murmurs, and Peter hums, pleased with the praise. “Get on the bed, Peter,” he says then, and Peter scrambles to do as he’s told. He watches from his spot against the pillows as Tony peels off his shirt, toes off his shoes and then shimmies out of his pants.

Peter’s mouth goes dry, again. Tony is shorter than Quentin, a little slimmer, but not… well, not _smaller_ , and Peter’s stomach flips a little.

“Stark,” Quentin says then, softly, and Peter bites his lip at the flicker of annoyance on Tony’s face before he half-turns.

“What?”

Quentin throws the tube of lube his way, and Tony catches it, mid-air. Quentin smirks, darkly. “You’re gonna need it. He’s a tight squeeze,” and Peter blushes fucking crimson at that.

“Q,” he blurts out, embarrassed, and Quentin’s grin only widens.

Tony, on the other hand, has closed his eyes, a long suffering expression on his face, and Peter is half afraid that he’s going to up and leave. Instead, when he has opened his eyes again, he picks up his jacket from where Peter discarded it earlier, rummages around in the pockets, and pulls out a condom.

When he looks back at Peter, there’s a calculating look on his face.

Oh yes, he’s about to get _fucked_.

Tony crawls onto the bed with him, and Peter sighs at the first touch of skin against skin. It shouldn’t feel this good to be so close to Tony, not with his _boyfriend_ on the couch not ten feet away, should it?

But when he catches Quentin’s eyes over Tony’s shoulder – Tony, who is stroking skilled hands over Peter’s ribs – the other man just smiles at him, and reaches for his belt.

And so Peter lies back and lets Tony explore him, as his own hands wander over the man’s shoulders, his chest, and finally down to his cock again. Tony hisses against his throat, says, “God, Peter,” and Peter holds out his free hand.

“Condom?”

Tony rolls onto his back with a chuckle and hands Peter the foil packet. Peter makes short work of opening it, so focused on what he’s doing that he jumps when Tony touches him again, when he slips lube-wet fingers between his thighs. He smirks a little as he spreads his legs a little wider, and he takes hold of Tony’s cock before he rolls the condom down, slowly. Tony rewards him with one finger, and Peter sighs and rolls his hips back.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, and Tony crooks his finger a little.

“You’re going to feel so good, Peter, so tight and hot,” he murmurs, and Peter keens.

“I _wanna_ be good for you, sir,” he hears himself say, and if he wasn’t so horny he can’t think straight any more, he’d probably be embarrassed by what is coming out of his mouth. He knows Quentin thinks he’s mouthy during sex but Peter also knows that his boyfriend loves it, and, going by the way Tony’s eyes darken, he’s into it, too.

Apparently the man has become as impatient as Peter feels since he spends very little time preparing him, moving on to two fingers quickly, and Peter relishes the slight burn. He leans down and now Tony lets him kiss him as he winds the fingers of his free hand into Peter’s curls, and Peter melts a little.

Finally Tony pulls his hand away, and Peter wastes no more time, he crawls into the man’s lap so he can rub himself along Tony’s length, his eyes fluttering closed and his own cock leaving a sticky trail on Tony’s stomach. “Mister Stark, can I...”

In answer, Tony urges him onto his knees with one hand, while he positions himself with his other. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

It takes all of Peter’s willpower to not just slam his hips down. Instead he makes himself go slowly, and if he tortures himself with it, well, it’s absolutely worth it for the sounds coming out of Tony’s mouth as he takes him in. “ _Fuck_ , Mister Stark, you feel so good,” he gasps, once he’s finally, _finally_ , seated, and Tony’s fingers dig into his hips.

“Kid, if you keep it up with the ‘Mister Stark’ business, this isn’t going to take long,” he grinds out between gritted teeth, and Peter laughs.

“Kinky,” he says and rolls his hips experimentally.

Tony grins, then, and heat flares in Peter’s stomach. “Oh, sweetheart, you got no idea.” He smacks Peter’s thigh then, hard enough to sting but not actually hurt, and Peter can’t contain a little gasp. “Now move that pretty little ass of yours,” Tony says in a low voice, and Peter obeys because really, what’s the alternative?

He starts slowly, with little rolls of his hips, but it doesn’t take long until he just _has_ to lift them, until he really starts riding Tony and, consequently, until he starts babbling.

“Fuck, fuck, feels so good, feels _perfect_ , Mister-”

Tony’s hand closes around his throat suddenly, and Peter’s mouth snaps shut. “What did I tell you about calling me that?”

“Sorry,” he squeaks, and fuck, this has no right being as insanely hot as it is. “It’s just...” He brings his own hand up, wraps his fingers around Tony’s wrist, and licks his lips. “I really like how saying it feels.”

The fingers around his throat twitch, tighten for a moment, and Peter clenches around Tony’s cock in answer. “Jesus, kid, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, breathless, and Peter grins.

“Don’t go having a heart attack on me, _old man_ ,” and he knows he’s hit his target when Tony’s eyes narrow.

“Old man, huh? Well, this old man still knows a thing or two about giving cheeky little boys what they deserve,” he says in a tone of voice that should absolutely be illegal, and Peter goes a little light-headed.

“Show, don’t tell, sir,” he breathes as he lets go of Tony’s wrist, and Tony smirks, gives his throat one last squeeze before he lets go and slides his hands down to Peter’s hips again.

“You sure, beautiful?”

The endearment goes straight to Peter’s cock, and he nods, rocks his hips a little for emphasis. “Please, yes.”

Tony plants his feet behind Peter, urges him onto his knees more, and then, with a smirk and a, “You asked for it,” he starts fucking Peter, in the most basic sense of the word. He somehow manages to hit his prostate with every thrust, and it doesn’t take long until Peter has turned into an incoherent mess as all he can do is hold on and try not to get bucked off. There’s a near constant stream of curses that fall from his lips, “Yes, fuck, _fuck_ , harder, sir, yes please,” and every single one seems to only spur Tony on more.

“That was you need, sweetheart? To get fucked until you can’t see straight, while your boyfriend watches?”

Peter is almost ashamed when he realises he forgot all about Quentin, but now his head whips around, his eyes wide. Quentin is still where Peter left him, and he’s watching them with an intensity that makes goosebumps pop up all over Peter’s skin. He’s still stroking himself, slow and measured movements, and Peter can see the wet shimmer of pre-come where Quentin spread it with his fingers. It’s quite possibly one of the hottest things Peter has ever seen.

“What do we say when someone gives us something we really want, Peter,” Tony asks, quietly, as he slows his thrusts, just a little, and Peter bites his lip.

“Th-thank you, Quentin,” he says, and Quentin’s mouth twitches.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Tony murmurs, before he winds an arm around Peter’s waist and pulls him down so they’re chest to chest, “thank you, Quentin,” and if it sounds a little mocking, that is drowned out pretty much immediately by Peter’s moan as Tony picks up the pace again. That moan turns back into a mixture of cursing and, simply put, begging soon enough.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes, please more, _don’t stop_...”

“Never,” Tony breathes, and it’s so quiet, a whisper against the skin of Peter’s throat, that he’s not even sure for a moment whether he imagined it or not. It’s only when he draws back a little to look at Tony, when he sees the almost stricken look on the man’s face, that he knows he didn’t imagine it at all.

Peter leans down and kisses Tony, gently, softly. There’s a million thoughts racing through his head but now is definitely not the time to talk about this, and so instead he sits up again, leans back so he can brace himself on Tony’s thigh with one hand. The other he wraps around his cock, gives himself a few slow strokes. His eyes fall closed because, “Fuck, sir, I’m so close,” and Tony makes a sound that sounds almost like a whimper.

“You want to come, Peter?” He nods, almost frantic all of a sudden, and Tony picks up the pace again. “Well, I don’t know. You’ve been a bit of a brat, don’t you think?”

Peter bites his lip to keep in a whimper because hot damn. “Not really...”

“See, that’s what a brat would say. Don’t you agree, Quentin?”

 _Jesus Christ_ , Peter thinks as he forces his eyes open to look over at Quentin, and knows immediately that he’s in trouble. The smirk on his face is positively evil, and a thrill shoots through Peter as he waits for what Quentin will say.

“I do, actually. You can be so sweet and polite, darling, but as soon as you get a dick into you, well.” He gets to his feet then, shedding his shirt along the way, and Peter bites his lip again. “I think you should apologise to Tony,” Quentin says as he stops by the bed, and Peter’s mouth waters as he watches him stroke himself.

“I’m sorry for calling you old,” Peter says, “and for being so demanding and...” His words die in a strangled moan as Tony closes his hand around Peter’s where he’s still stroking himself, and all he can do is try really, _really_ hard to not come right then.

“Open up,” Quentin says to his right, and Peter opens his mouth without even thinking about it, and Quentin pushes his cock past his lips. “Fuck, you look so pretty like this, Peter,” he gasps, and Peter hums happily, opens his mouth wider as Quentin puts a hand under his jaw. 

Tony’s grip on his hip, on his cock, tightens as he realises what’s going to happen, and Peter breathes and relaxes his throat just as Quentin fucks into it. Peter is quite frankly so far up on his cloud that he lacks any coordination or finesse whatsoever, and so he just keeps as still as he can with Tony still fucking him from below, and lets Quentin take what he wants.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Tony grinds out, and Peter is pretty certain he sees stars when Tony starts moving his hand, when Quentin slides his free hand into his hair to hold him steady. “Come on, sweetheart,” Tony says, voice strained, “come for us,” and _holy fucking hell_.

Quentin pulls back so Peter can breathe, his grip on Peter’s hair tightening until it’s just shy of being painful, and says, “You wanna be a good boy for us, don't you?”

Peter _screams_ , he can’t stop himself, it’s just too much, too good, and when he comes it hurts, almost.

He’s floating, feeling warm and out of breath and perfect. Tony lets go of Peter’s cock to grab his hips with both hands again instead, and moments later he’s cussing up a storm ending on a groan as he grinds his hips against Peter’s ass. Quentin lets go of his hair then, takes hold of his jaw again and tells him to keep his mouth open, and then he too is coming, into Peter’s mouth and on his chin, and Peter sticks out his tongue, and both men make a noise that Peter is probably going to treasure forever.

Tony tugs him down, off him, and Peter whines a little in protest, but Tony directs him to lie beside him, tucked against his side as their breathing slows, and after a moment the bed dips and then Quentin is on his other side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

He’s sticky, with sweat and his own come and Quentin’s where he missed his mouth, and he doesn’t give a single fuck. He grins up at the ceiling, stupidly, and says, “Best day ever.”


	4. Chapter 4

It takes all of them a while to get their breath back under control, for their heartbeats to slow down again. Quentin gets up at some point and returns with a damp wash cloth for Peter, and Tony disappears into the bathroom after to get rid of the condom, and Peter just lies there, grinning like an idiot. Quentin pulls him against his chest once he’s cleaned the come off of his face and stomach, and Peter snuggles closer.

“You still okay,” he asks, quietly, and Quentin tilts his head up with a finger under his chin, kisses him lightly.

“Still okay, darling,” he says against Peter’s lips, and Peter hums. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy this as much as I did, to be honest.” He slides his hand down, over Peter’s back and to the curve of his ass, squeezing. “You looked beautiful.”

Peter can’t help but giggle a little at that, and he hides his face against Quentin’s chest. After a moment, he says, “I felt like it, you know? Appreciated. Wanted.” Quentin’s arms around him tightens slightly, and he kisses the spot over his heart. “The way you make me feel, and I never expected to feel like it with someone else.”

Tony comes back then, cheeks still wearing a flush, and he cocks a grin at them. “I see you started the pillow talk without me.”

Quentin snorts indelicately, and Peter huffs a laugh. “Just a little,” he says, and Tony drops down on the mattress beside him, making Peter roll towards him.

“At least wait with the juicy bits.”

They’re all quiet for a while after that, each lost in thought, and Peter likes this. Likes it a lot. There’s still palpable tension between the two men, but there is one thing they can agree on, apparently, and that is that what Peter wants, Peter gets.

“So when did you decide you’d rather fuck the nephew than the hot aunt,” Quentin asks calmly after some minutes, and Tony glares at him.

“Probably around the time you decided to break the fucking law,” he hisses, but there’s no real venom to it.

“Oh please, we both know that what Peter and I did was perfectly legal.” Quentin smirks. “Ethically questionable, yes. Illegal, no.”

Tony huffs at that, put out because he knows the man is right. Peter rolls over so his back is to Quentin, places his hand on Tony’s chest, watches Tony’s eyes slip closed, and suddenly the light mood is gone. There’s something heavy lurking under the surface here, and Peter holds his breath.

“I knew you’d be in my class, last year,” Tony says, finally, quietly. “Saw your name on the list and thought, huh, May’s nerdy little nephew. And then you walked into my classroom and… you weren’t little any more. Quite the opposite.” He smiles, softly, eyes still closed. “Still nerdy as fuck, though.” He puts his hand over Peter’s, squeezes gently. “I hadn’t thought of you in years, to be honest. When I was with May, you were just… kind of there. The kid that would talk my ear off about whatever science project you were working on whenever I came over, but that’s the extent of attention I paid to you. You were a child.” He turns his head on the pillow, looks over at Peter, and there’s a heat in his eyes. “I don’t know if you were just a late bloomer or what, but when you walked through that door, you were _definitely_ not a child any more.”

Peter stares back at him for a moment, and then he says, “That is so much more appropriate than I expected.”

Tony snorts a laugh, Quentin chuckles behind him, and Peter kind of wants to stay in this moment forever.

*~*~*~*~*~*

He half expected Tony to leave, or for Quentin to tell him to get dressed so _they_ can leave, but neither man seems in a hurry to do so, and so Peter settles in, with his butt pressed against Quentin and his head resting against Tony’s chest. He has almost drifted off, his limbs heavy with fatigue after a long day of emotional ups and downs, when he hears Tony speak, quietly.

“I assume this was a one-time-only deal,” he asks tersely, and Peter stiffens slightly as he tries to keep up the pretence of being asleep. Quentin, on his other side, is quiet for a long time, so long that Peter is half convinced that he has fallen asleep already.

“That is entirely up to Peter,” he says, instead, after a while, just as terse as Tony. “It’s no secret that I don’t particularly like you, and I know the feeling is mutual.” Fingers run through Peter’s hair then, and he sighs softly. “But I’m not blind, and contrary to popular belief, I’m not that much of a selfish jerk.” Another long pause, before he says, “He likes you, even if I haven’t got the foggiest why. So if he wants to make this a regular thing, I’m not going to stop him.”

Tony shifts, and Peter can imagine the look of disbelief on his face, in part because he’s pretty certain it’s mirrored on his own. “You’d really share him. You of all people.”

“He’s not a thing, Stark. As much as I’d enjoy… _owning_ him,” and shit if that doesn’t send a thrill shooting down Peter’s spine, “he’s his own person. He makes his own decisions.”

“I’m honestly shocked.”

“Well, stranger things have happened.”

“I suppose.”

They fall silent again, apparently having said all they needed to say, and it doesn’t take Peter long to fall asleep, finally.

*~*~*~*~*~*

He wakes at the ass crack of dawn, because he’s an idiot who forgot to turn off his alarm on his phone, and he scrambles, bleary-eyed, over Quentin, who is still fast asleep next to him. His phone has fallen from his back pocket, where it now lies on the floor and beeps annoyingly, and he breathes a sigh when he finally manages to swipe and silence the alarm.

“God damn it,” he mutters, rubs a hand over his face, ready to fall back into bed and catch some more shut-eye, but he’s startled out of his thoughts when the bathroom door opens and Tony steps out, fully dressed and obviously about to leave.

Peter is suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness as Tony notices him standing in the middle of the room, and despite what happened last night, he shifts, trying to come up with a way to cover himself. Tony appears to be rooted to the spot, staring at him, and Peter tries to ignore the awkwardness and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Tony says softly, and Peter walks over to him. The way Tony’s eyes seem to roam all over his body feels… way too good, if he’s being honest with himself. “I was going to let you sleep,” Tony says, and Peter slides his hand into the other man’s.

“I forgot to turn off my phone,” he murmurs, and Tony tugs him a little closer. “I’m glad I did, though,” Peter says, tilting his head without even thinking about it, and Tony’s other hand is on his cheek and then he’s kissing Peter, and _oh._

It’s gentle and sweet and Peter loves every second of it.

Tony leans his forehead against Peter’s when they part, eyes closed, and when he asks, “Call me,” there is a note of anxiety in his voice, and Peter winds his arms around him.

“I’ll need your number for that,” he says into the front of the man’s shirt, smiling, almost giddy with the knowledge that Tony wants to see him again.

He walks back over to his phone, Tony’s card clutched in his hand, after Tony had kissed him again before he left, and Peter feels like he’s walking on air, and when he crawls back into the bed and cuddles up to Quentin, he’s still smiling.

Quentin kisses him awake an hour later, and Peter grins up at him lazily. “Want me to thank you again,” he asks as Quentin’s hand moves between his thighs, and the man gives him another of his devilish smiles.

“Who am I to say no to an offer like that?”

*~*~*~*~*~*

Peter meets May for lunch, and some of the anxiety of the previous day returns as he sits in the café, waiting. He’s scrolling through Instagram, steadfastly ignoring the WhatsApp icon at the top of the screen that tries to shame him into replying to MJ’s questions about the evening, when May slides into the booth on the other side of the table.

“So, Mister Beck, huh,” she says without preamble, and Peter blushes.

“Hello, May, happy to see you, too,” he says pointedly, and May smiles.

“Aw, come on, let me have a little fun with this.”

“Sorry, that’s MJ’s job already,” he says as he picks up the menu.

“I take it she knew?” May picks up her own, scanning the list quickly.

“Yeah. As if I could keep secrets from her for long.”

The waiter appears then, and after they have ordered, there is a short, awkward silence, until May takes his hand across the table. “I like him, you know? He seems like he’s good for you.”

Peter hears Quentin’s voice in his head, _You wanna be a good boy for us, don’t you?_ , and his blush returns full force. “Yeah, he’s, he’s great.”

“How did Tony take it,” she asks, smiling at the waiter as he brings their drinks, and Peter presses his lips together to keep the first thing that pops into his mind – _hard and deep_ – inside.

“Surprisingly well,” he says instead after a moment, shifting a little in his seat, and he can’t help but wonder how May is going to react to this, should it ever come to light. _I’m living on borrowed time_ , he thinks as she smiles at him, and he bites his lip on the nervous laugh that wants to bubble up. “Really well, in fact.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he groans when he pulls it out to look what it is.

_PETER BENJAMIN PARKER, I NEED DETAILS NOW. -MJ_

He just can’t catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I wasn't planning on expanding this this far, tbh, but then it just sort of... happened. I still have some more ideas floating around my head, so you might see more of these three in some form. Anything you'd like in particular? A Tony/Quentin hatefuck seems to be a popular choice. Let me know in the comments!


End file.
